The Christmas Stocking Affair
by RoseLight
Summary: Napoleon meets Josephine; Illya encounters his ghost of Christmas Past.


The Christmas Stocking Affair

Prologue

Waverly welcomed Solo into his office in his customary way: in a great show of indifference to his Chief Enforcement Agent, and equal concentration on stuffing his pipe. Solo waited patiently to be acknowledged.

"Mr. Solo, Thrush financial division has established a money laundering operation here in New York, through a Mr. Philip Crown. We'd like you to do some investing with Mr. Crown, some investigating of his records, perhaps liberate some documents for our forensic accountants to analyze…"

"So I'm posing as a business man."

"We'll be providing you with background and identity. You just be your charming self."

Solo flashed his famous, smooth smile, happily contemplating which designer suit to wear for the first contact. He infinitely preferred this assignment to his last one: mucking about in the Venetian sewers for contraband.

ACT I "I Deliver."

Solo headed for the Spitzer Building, where Philip Crown kept an office. He passed a suspicious doorman, and waited at the reception desk of a weary security guard. He waited because a lady with striking copper hair and matching running shoes was gabbing.

"So, Tony likes NYU?"

"Yeah, yeah, especially that prof of yours—Dober?" guessed the security guard.

"Yes, he's an inspiration whatever you study," agreed the red head. " How 's Cynthia's arthritis?"

The officer sighed. "Well, yknow, this weather…"

"Here," Red ruffled around in her bag. "Try this. So do I get one of Katy's senior pictures?"

"Ahem-" Napoleon's patience was thinning.

"Yes?" She turned to him, nonplussed.

"I have some business to conduct."

She turned back to the uniformed guard. "Charlie, this gentleman has some business to conduct," she announced airily, and then whispered in Solo's ear "you'll never get past the first floor."

Solo handed his card to Charlie, who grunted. "Sorry, no appointment. This is a secured building." He handed Solo back his card, and turned away to study his monitors.

The woman gave Solo a scintillating smile as if to say, "I told you so…watch me" and fluttered her eyelashes. "I need access to 14."

"Sure, PJ" and Security tossed her the keys.

When she emerged from the elevator and returned the keys with a cheerful wave to Charlie, Napoleon Solo was sitting in the lobby, waiting for her. "So, how did you do that?"

"Professional secret." She gazed straight into his hazel eyes. "Of course, it is time for a latte break…" He took her hint and her arm and they strolled around the corner.

"So…you're PJ."

"I am PJ, with the Irish crème latte. Josie to friends, formally Paulina Yosefina Walinski, independent courier. 'When you need it quick and confidential, call me.'"

"I thought everybody used computers now days."

She sniffed. "My nine year old neighbor can crack a security code. I am discreet. I am trusted with information from bankers, brokers, lawyers, lovers, hitmen, spies…" at his expression, she teased. " Just to see if you were paying attention. I've built a network of doormen and security guards all over the city. I have a remarkable memory, and I invest time to get to know these folks. Most people just treat them like furniture. It's a poorly-paid, thankless job. So I give them some attention, some respect, value them."

"And you get access and information all over the city…" Solo caught on.

"And, I can say hello in nine languages; I get dozens of homebaked Christmas cookies; and I've got five godchildren."

"Mind if I tag along and watch your technique in action?"

# # # # #

Napoleon discovered she was a courier by trade only. PJ also acted as academic adviser (If you can't get that Latin conjugation, call me), career counselor (There's closed auditions at 42nd street Tuesday. Tell Tommy I sent you), matchmaker ( she's a nice Hungarian girl, and she keeps Kosher), herbalist (Take this Echinacea 4 days a week. I don't want you catching the flu like last year), prayer partner ( Sweetie, I'm wearing out my beads for you).

"You take good care of me, PJ" the old man's white-walrus mustache waggled. "Shoes fit fine." She patted his hand.

Napoleon marveled. "How do you keep it all straight?"

"I am whatever these people need me to be. That's why I'm the best at what I do."

"I'm jealous. That's usually my line."

Solo was so intrigued, he broke his own rule about waiting 48 hours before offering a date, and they met at Toujours that evening.

While waiting for their dinner, PJ reached over and took his hand.

"Going to read my fortune?" Napoleon hinted.

"I can always tell," she said authoritatively, " it's in the fingers." She examined each digit, studying with intense concentration while his temperature rose steadily and his pulse quickened.

"You play the accordion," she announced, and Napoleon was horrified. It was his deepest, darkest secret: that he had taken accordion lessons as a child. "You play Pennsylvania Polka, and Jingle Bells."

"Both, and badly," he confessed sheepishly.

"Then don't play for performance," PJ advised. "Play for pleasure."

" 'Play for Pleasure'—I ought to needlepoint that motto for my wall."

She shook her head. "These are not needlepoint fingers."

"And what's the motto on your wall?"

" 'I Deliver', of course. Courier, remember?"

"And what dark secret would I discover if I took your hand?" Napoleon reached across the table.

She looked him straight in the eyes."That my pulse is racing as fast as yours," she whispered.

He turned her hand over and pressed his lips to her wrist to test the theory.

"Did you want dessert?" he offered quietly.

"I've got stale doughnuts and cool whip at home," she counter-offered.

"My favorite."

ACT II "We need a tuba player."

As the winter holidays drew closer, Solo continued his courtship of Philip Crown by day, and PJ (now promoted to Josie) by night. Kuryakin found himself back from his mission in time for Josie to recruit him for her favorite holiday event: an evening at a homeless shelter.

"Merry Christmas, Illya," a woman greeted softly.

He straightened and paused before turning to face her. It had been three years since he'd heard the only voice that played his name like music. "Merry Christmas, Madeleine."

She was wearing her hair swept up in white-gold braids, encircling her head like a halo. That, and the floor-length, blue velvet maternity gown, gave her a Madonna-esque glow. He had a fleeting genetic revelation that their children would have been blue-eyed blonds.

"You're looking very…seasonal. Congratulations," he said quietly.

"Thank you," she blushed. "Are you still with the network?" Madeleine inquired cautiously. It had been his career at UNCLE that frightened her away. It had been an unsatisfying conclusion for both of them.

"Yes."

"Ah. Well, I'm glad to see you safe: it's a testament to my morning prayers." Her smile was genuine, her gaze tinged with—remembrance? Regret? Or was he just seeing the reflection of his own need in her sapphire eyes?

"I confess I've sampled the strudel. I should've known you were here."

"I wanted to contribute something to the evening, since I don't fit behind the cello lately. Noelle kicks in syncopation." She patted her tummy affectionately.

"Noelle?"

"She's due on Christmas Eve. Or Sasha, if it's a boy. I 've always been fond of the Russian Romantics- composers." She was daring him to look at her again. "You're here with the volunteers?"

"My annual good deed."

"I am so glad to see you," she emphasized each word, to him and herself, then took both his hands in hers. Her fingers were so cold, he automatically began to rub them rhythmically between his own , then abruptly dropped them. She had a husband to warm her hands now. It was not his place; not his pleasure.

"I'd like you to meet Steven. He's around here somewhere…"she glanced around the busy hall.

"Saint' Steven Sonnet of Mercy Mission? I've read all about him in the press." Illya never considered himself a petty person, and was surprised at the stiffness of his reply.

Madeleine had been truly happy to see him, and was prepared to be gracious. But his tone hurt her. "After we—well, I tried to find someone different from you. Someone committed to a profession that didn't operate on deception and violence."

"I told you then I understood."

"I'll go find Steven…"

"Perhaps later...duty calls," he answered her dismissively and ducked through the kitchen double doors, in time to see Josie lose a balance battle with six metal trays.

Crash—clang—clatter!

She let fly with a string of colorful Polish epithets until she felt his presence. "Oh, Lord..." she reverted quickly to English. "Oh, mercy, Illya, forgive me. You probably understood every word of that…" she was blushing wildly. "I'm so sorry. Now you'll never think I'm a lady."

He grinned half-heartedly. "Actually, it made me a bit homesick."

"It's just that, well, if no one understands what I'm saying, it isn't really cursing, is it?" Josie rationalized gaily.

His thoughts returning to Madeleine, the smile died on his lips. They had not so much broken up as broken apart.

"You look like you've seen the Ghost of Christmas Past." Solo's girl was too intuitive.

"Bah, Humbug."

Illya thoroughly approved of Solo's latest crush. The curvy, copper-topped woman was completely unpretentious, lively, lovely and literate. Not usually Solo's type. She embraced her Eastern European ethnicity , celebrating herself as a 'passionate, Polish princess.' She was not remotely sophisticated or cynical.

"I'm meeting Napoleon in Little Warsaw after we're finished here. Come with us," Josie urged. "Pieorgie, Polka, Kielbasi—how can you resist?" she held her arms open to him, so warm and welcoming. "You've got to come. We need a tuba player."

"I don't play the tuba."

"So, you'll have a beer, then you'll play the tuba."

He smiled in spite of himself. "Empress Josephine, you are truly irresistible."

So Illya did play the tuba, and Josie prevailed upon a band member to lend Solo his accordion for two mangled verses of Jingle Bells.

"That was a blood-oath secret you just witnessed," Solo threatened his partner. They were out of breath and took a seat. Napoleon and Josephine made goo-goo eyes at each other playfully across the table. Illya had never seen his partner so relaxed, so warm, so downright goofy. This pretty Polish pastry had the power to dissolve a lethal espionage agent into a puddle of potato pudding.

ACT 3 "I do."

In the weeks that followed, Kuryakin noticed his partner using the plural personal pronouns almost consistently.

"'We' meaning you and Pretty Paulie.." he teased.

"Yeah, well…dammit, Illya, I've just never had so much fun with anybody before. Last night we went roller skating. Yknow, it's amazing—coffee tastes creamier when she's around; skies are bluer, satin is silkier, the Stooges are funnier—"

"I get the general idea," Kuryakin held up his hand trying to forestall any further praise. "So how is the laundry investigation coming?"

Solo sighed. "Slower than I'd like. I'm still trying to get his confidence, build up some credibility…"

"Well, never much action in that kind of mission. But you wouldn't want to wrinkle those designer suits at the shipyards in Gdansk with me. Shall I bring you and Josie a housewarming souvenir from the Old Country?"

# # # # #

Napoleon came home to find Josie in his double-deep tub in a cloud of pink bubbles. "I don't know why we bother to pay rent on two separate apartments." Josie was eminently practical.

"Great minds think alike…" he pulled out a small jeweler's box and snapped it open. "I never could wait til Christmas." The ruby ring sparkled, and Josie paled.

Solo was bewildered. He'd heard of blushing brides, bartered brides, but never a blanching bride. "It's the first step to moving you in here permanently," he explained.

"You mean like…marriage?"

"That is the tradition."

"Oh, god, Napoleon…married? I mean, you're a wonderful guy, and I have more fun with you than anyone, but...I just don't think I'm ready for clipping coupons, and chicken every Tuesday, and PTA and permanence…"

"It doesn't have to be that way," Solo puzzled at her unexpected objections. "We're not like that now."

She shook her head. "Marriage changes things. Now we're together because we want to be. What if...we got bored?"

"Then I hope we'd just love each other through it , til we came out on the other side."

"But we're so good together now. Napoleon, can't we just, well, keep on keepin' on ..til I'm more confident?"

Napoleon smiled sadly. "Jo, I've never known you to be less than confident about anything. I guess I'm the exception"

"You can't wait til I'm ready?"

"And if you're never ready?"

She took a deep breath. "So you need a commitment now?"

"I do—pardon the expression."

Josie patted his cheek softly. "I've loved knowing you, Napoleon Solo."

ACT IV Historical Precedents

He considered ignoring the knock, but it persisted. Heavily, he unchained the door.

"Merry Christmas eve, Napoleon. Merry Christmas eve, Empress," called the blond elf. "I thought if I brought my own ammunition, perhaps your Jo would take pity on me," Illya waved the mistletoe over his head. "I promise not to stay late, so the sugar plum fairies can dance in your heads," he called again down the dark hallway. It was then he noticed that his partner looked as glum as he felt.

Solo sat on the couch and gestured for Kuryakin to join him. They sat and stared at the tree lights. It had been Josie who insisted on a tree. Solo had not bothered for years.

Both men remembered the sheer fun of lugging the tree home, tangling it with lights, tossing tinsel at each other. Jo had made cocoa and popcorn. Illya broke the silence. "Napoleon and Josephine…?"

"Split." Solo shrugged. " There's historical precedent."

"I cannot believe that a woman said 'no' to you."

"Only when it mattered. I think I'll leave the search for True Love to you. It's back to sultry Saturdays for me."

Illya continued to stare into the tree. "I've been calling the hospital every couple of hours. Madeleine had her baby. Sasha."

"Christmas eve, baby boy. Another historical precedent. Speaking of precedents...or presents...thanks for the stocking."

"Not from me…" his partner insisted.

Solo picked it up. The red felt was filled with documents: papers, disks, microfilm, a small cassette. He examined them slowly. "This is…my God, Illya, this is evidence against Philip Crown…"

The Russian knelt beside his partner. "Looks authentic. Did St. Nicholas get your wish list?"

"I haven't been that good a boy. …. ' Network all over the city…" Solo murmured to himself.

"Well, we've cracked the case. We've broken our hearts. All that's left to do is toast to Christmas Present." Kuryakin lifted his glass.

Solo disagreed. "Nah. All things considered, let's drink to Christmas Yet To Come."

finis


End file.
